Claw
by Swimmingly Yours
Summary: Ralon of Malven longs to go back to Corus, he longs for power and most of all, he longs for revenge... An extended spinoff about Ralon's life from leaving the Palace to reappearing in Corus as 'Claw'. Chapter 8 up.
1. Discarded

Hey guys, I edited this a little and now it's a bit different to what it was when I first published it, but I promise, the changes are for the better!

*I don't own most of the characters. but I do own the depressing story I put them in.*

**______________________________**

**Claw**

**Chapter One: Discarded**

Count Viljo looked at his youngest son, sitting before him with an indifferent expression. The Count was shaking with rage, and it was all that he could do to refrain himself from yelling so loud that all of Fief Malven could hear. He stood up, clenching both fists so hard that his knuckles turned white, and leaned across the desk to face Ralon.

"You –" Viljo found that the words were hard to force out. "How – dare – you." He hissed violently. "You let a midget of a boy stand between you and your honour, your glory."

Ralon shrugged, his expression bored. "I've already told you, Father, the idiot needed shutting up."

"The idiot? Boy, YOU are the idiot!" the Count could see Ralon's future fading away before his eyes. He knew the boy could've done well. He had everything in him: brains, talent on the field, a good family heritage. But he threw it all away. Out of all three sons, Ralon had seemed like the most promising of them all. Maybe Viljo should have spent a little more time with him, to get to know him better. Nevertheless -

"The only smart thing you did after that was to leave."*

Ralon folded his arms and leant back into his chair. "Alright, so I can't get a shield. So what? That's not the only thing in life."

"Then tell me, boy," said his father, and in his eyes was disgust, "What do you plan to do now? You can't join the King's Own, they'd never let you back at Court and no girl would want you for a husband. What is there for you in this world?"

The boy returned his father's gaze with uninterested eyes. He yawned loudly, the said, "Stay here."

Unexpectedly, the Count Laughed. The laughter was loud and clear, though it was far from cheerful. It seemed to bounce off everything in the study, even the books and velvet covered cushions, and linger. As suddenly as he had started, Count Viljo stopped laughing again. He sat back down in his chair and looked at his son once more. But there were blanks in his eyes this time. The cold, grey eyes reflected nothing.

"You honestly think," he said, his voice calm and steady, "That I would have a disgraced PAGE living in my house?" 

Ralon's eyes widened, and for the first time in his life, the sneer on his face wasn't there. "Y-you mean you're going to disown me?"

Count Viljo leant backwards, his hands clasped together loosely in his lap. "Yes, I wasn't wrong, thinking that you were smart. Let's make a deal, shall we? You leave quietly before sunset, never come back here again, and I won't tell everyone the truth about you. I won't even say anything about disowning, I'll be that nice, so that you can live the rest of your life without ever seeing me again."

Ralon's face paled and his eyes darted to the door and back. "B-but Father, I'm your son. You can't –"

"Don't you tell me what I can or can't do," hissed the Count. "You are the one who disgraced us all. Our family's been in the Book of Silver for the past century, and when you got your shield, we would've been added to the Book of _Gold_!" he laughed again, and Ralon thought, not for the first time, that his father was a little insane.

"But there's not much hope of that, is there," the man continued, "you know you wouldn't have survived in the Chamber of the Ordeal. It doesn't want you, and neither do I. I am _not_ going to take pity on something discarded by a _room_." 

He stood up from his chair, walked to the door, yanked it open and looked pointedly at Ralon.

The boy shrank away, utterly terrified. "No – I'm your son –"

The Count seized him and dragged him towards the door. "You are no son of mine!" he said, as he proceeded to push the struggling Ralon out of his chambers.

"No – Father, please –"

Ralon tried, as hard as he could, to pull away from his father. He was desperate, his hands grappling at the ones that held him and tried to get rid of him. But his father was too strong. Ralon felt himself been pushed past the open door and out into the hallway. He flung himself forwards to where the study was, but it was too late.

His father had slammed the door in his face.

_________________________________

* quote by Lord Raoul, from _Squire,_ chapter 9: Midwinter Luck.

It might not seem like much now, but it will get better, more emotional, etc. I guarantee it.


	2. A New Life

To my dear readers. I am quite disappointed at the number of reviews I got for chapter one of this story. But, however, I am not the sort of person who asks for reviews to write more chapters. And I am sensible enough to know that the only way I could get more reviews is to write more chapters. So enjoy this one, It might be a bit depressing… like chapter one…

* I don't own the characters. I own the depressing story I put them in. I also own the village people. *

****

_________________________

Chapter two: A new life.

Ralon looked up at the cloudy, hazy sky and muttered a curse. (A/N: sound familiar? Well it does to me. Alanna was in this situation once…) The weather wasn't on his side, that much was for sure. His mare Windancer bickered. She was a trained warhorse, but Ralon neglected her exercises and training for years, and now she was terribly shy. 

__

Just what I need, he thought to himself. _I was disowned, thrown out of _my own house_, and now there's the rain._

He knew the events with his father the previous day would never leave him. they would stick forever, like a mole or a birthmark on his face, where he didn't want it. He also knew that his father would remember him forever too – wasn't it strange, the way mortal beings used the word forever? What did it actually mean?*

With a little grim satisfaction, with the fact that what his father did to him would haunt the man to his deathbed, he made Windancer break into a reluctant trot. But Ralon was still afraid, as afraid as he had been before, and refused to ponder that his father was rejoicing this very moment, drinking and celebrating that his son had gone at last. 

No. Ralon was somewhat a coward. He refused to let his fear come and conquer it, he just pushed it to the back of his head and continued on, so that every last drop of that fear was still with him. Deep down, he knew this, of course. He knew he was afraid. He just chose to ignore it. 

***

The rain came. Windancer the mare was terrified and Ralon tried his best to get her going. The rain was getting harder by the second, and even through the thick canopy of the trees, Ralon could feel the droplets of rain coming through at irregular intervals. Soon the trees will be soaked through – and Ralon and his mare, likewise.

Towards the end of the thicket of trees Ralon could make out a settlement. Or, at least, he could see lights. He nudged Windancer none too gently into a trot. He didn't actually want to encounter any people at the moment but he knew it was his only chance to spend a night indoors. He shivered in the increasing cold and not for the first time that day he thought of his 'home'. Fief Malven was in a warm part of Tortall, but north-eastern Tortall, where he was now, had extremely unpredictable weather. 

As he got closer to the lights, he saw that it was a village of some sort – a mining village, perhaps. Recalling his earlier Tortallan geography lessons he remembered that this area had opal mines. He guessed there were about thirty huts – he couldn't be sure because of the driving rain.

And it seemed like ages had gone by before he reached the little village. But as he rode into the premises, a man, one with a look of authority stepped out from a nearby dwelling. The man hastily jammed a wide-brimmed hat onto his head and Ralon, through his trained eyes, saw the dearness and the good workmanship of that hat.

"Who are you, and what business do you have here?" the man asked. It was impossible to tell anything of the man's features in the weather but he had a low, grunting voice as if he was used to yelling. Ralon was aware, that every second, he was getting wetter.

"My name is… " he pondered, knowing that he couldn't possibly state his real name, and that he had to do with an alias. "Zen," he decided, "my name is Zen."

***

It was a simple mining town. Opal mines were frequent in these parts of Tortall, and after being tested for the Gift (the Gifted were not allowed to work in opal mines, for fear that they could do mass destruction with magic stored in opals) Ralon was accepted to work at the mines. He was provided with a tiny cottage – probably only as big as a latrine room at fief Malven – that was just enough for a bed, a privy and a couple of chairs. He didn't get paid in coin – as long as he worked his share in the mines during the day he was provided with food and clothing and footwear when necessary.

The population of the village was small, consisting of around fifty miners, all men, a supervisor, who Ralon met the night he arrived, a dozen or so soldiers, to keep the place in order and three aged women, the cooks. A wagon came in from the nearest city to bring supplies and take away the opals once every week. aside from this the village had no contact from the rest of the country, and it also meant that by the end of the week the bread would be stale, the salt-preserved meat infested with flies and the fruits soft. The men mistrusted Ralon. Obviously he didn't tell them that he was a noble, but it wouldn't have been hard to guess. He was young, proud, with a sneering nose and didn't walk with a slouch, as the miners did. 

He didn't know why he decided to stay at the small village. Never before did he have to wash his own plates and his clothes, light his own fires in his miniature fireplace or eat stale bread. He could've easily ridden away, gone somewhere else, but he didn't. The shock of what had happened to him held him there that first night, and after that, he just felt like he didn't care anymore. 

"I have to WHAT?" he had exclaimed incredulously, when Alya, one of the cooks, informed him that he had to wash his plate and cutlery.

The woman didn't even look at him as she replied. "Hurry up, lad, we ain't staying here all day." 

This angered Ralon somehow. He hated this place already – the less-than-servant-size quarters, the old and musty smelling furniture. Washing utensils was a servants' job in Ralon's eyes, he didn't have to do it. He didn't want to do it. He _couldn't _do it.

"I refuse," he said flatly. Alya ignored him – she had had five sons, she knew how to deal with the anarchy. She walked away, collecting the plates of men who had finished washing. But this made Ralon even angrier. 

"I said I REFUSE!" he shouted, rather like a child having a tantrum. Everyone in the room turned to stare at him, and he loved the attention he was getting. He shoved his soiled plate to the nearest miner. "YOU wash it, " he said. "I am NOT going to work like a slave. I REFUSE to do it. I –"

"Would somebody do us a favour," someone called out, "and shut the insane lad up." 

The miners burst into laughter, and Ralon was getting beyond annoyed. At that time, the supervisor walked into the room, taking his nice hat off – it had been raining again outside. "What's going on in here?" he demanded, eyes sweeping around the room. 

The men had fallen silent the moment the supervisor had walked in the door. They knew about his rigidity, his strictness, his temper and his frequency of using severe punishments. But Ralon didn't know this. As the man approached him, he drew himself up with an air of importance and announced, "I will not do slaves' work. No-one can make me."

The supervisor merely looked at him coolly. "Are you defying our regulations, young man?"

"Maybe I am." And with a flick of his wrist, he sent the plate downwards onto the hard flagstones, where it cracked into numerous pieces.

Suddenly, Ralon felt hands on his shoulders and arms and saw some of the soldiers holding him tightly. The boy struggled, but it was in vain.

The supervisor looked straight into Ralon's grey eyes. "There are rules everywhere, boy, and to defy each rule has its own punishment." And so the two guards proceeded to lead the boy outside, while a third went to retrieve a whip from the guards' quarters. 

________________________________

*influenced by Isobelle Carmody in her novel _The Keeping Place._

that was a looong chapter compared to chapter one… and our poor Ralon's going to be hurt again. I'm curious to know, how do you like Ralon as a character? Please review this story, because if not I might lose heart. I wrote this story for all the people out there who read drama! 

Thanks to my reviewers: **Lil Miss Barton, anymos ** and **Keaira.**

By the way, Alya is pronounced 'ar-lee-a'… not that it really matters, but still.

****

Next chapter: we are present as Ralon gets flogged, as he mines, as he finds his, er, 'hut' robbed and as he plots revenge…


	3. Whipped!

Part three. I didn't get very much encouragement – hint, hint – but I still kept writing anyway! A note: this fic will have no A/J in it whatsoever, sorry to disappoint you all J . I fact, I don't think I'll add any romance at all – maybe a bit of flirting, though. Enjoy the chapter and see you all in a bit!

I don't own the characters. I own the depressing story I put them in.

**

* * *

Chapter three**

Crack!

The whip came down hard. Once again, Ralon felt the pain rush through his whole body. The guard was merciless – and so was the supervisor, standing nearby with a blank expression.

Crack!

He cried out, even though he was trained to take pain silently. He was doing it more to annoy whomever was watching.

Crack!

By then he was registering the pain, every last drop of it. Also, there was hatred coursing through him for these people. He cried out, anyway, and he knew his body was suffering.

Crack!

Ralon's head began to swim. Then pain was taking a huge toll on his body. He had never been whipped before – in the elite Tortallan society, only the lowest of servants got whipped. As a noble, the worst punishment he could have gotten was a bread and water food supply and two weeks work in the armoury.

Crack!

Dimly, he heard laughter from the spectators. His breath came out ragged, and the full build-up of the pain was blinding him. the energy to cry out anymore had left him.

Crack!

He would have gotten up and made a run for it. He would have given up all dignity, all pride, all honour, just to get away from the pain. But he couldn't. He was subject to this tyranny, and for only the second time in his life he had not the power to do anything about it.

Crack!

He felt a liquid dribble down his back. _Blood,_ he thought faintly, _my blood_. He had been lazy as a page, he knew, only ever training when he had to. One of his father's favourite phrases came back to him then: _a lazy man can prepare to take the toll of whatever catches up to him_.

And then – all went black.

* * *

Count Viljo sat at his desk, the windows slowly filtering in the light of dawn. He slowly sipped at the mug of Carthaki red tea in his hands. Soon he would be leaving for Court. The Midwinter Festival was near, and King Roald wanted every noble of Tortall to be there. Doubtless, he was also interested Page Ralon's sudden disappearance and his whereabouts.

Ralon.Viljo was mildly surprised that he had not come back to Malven already. He was sure his son would have come crawling back 'home' by now. Apparently, the boy had more guts than the Count had originally thought. The Count wondered if he was thinking about life before he escaped from the palace. Or was he thinking about what would have happened if he left that boy Alan alone?

But no. Ralon was never a 'what-if' person. He just did things – sometimes without even thinking, and his attitude was that he was always right.

There was a knock on the door. "My Lord." It was the servant, Aimery.

"My Lord," he said through the closed door, "Your horse is ready to ride now. So is the escort you wanted."

Count Viljo sent back the order that he'd be there. Then he stood, pushing his chair back. He took his riding cloak and walked out of the room. It was time to leave for the capital.

* * *

"Zen!"

At first, Ralon didn't answer. He had stayed in bed for almost a week now – four of those days he had been asleep. He was only up because he realised that he was not to be brought food. His alias was a little raw to him.

"Oi, Zen!" it came again.

He spun around to face a young man walking towards him. Ralon couldn't put a name to his face – wasn't significant enough.

"What do you want?" asked Ralon quite rudely. He was hungry, his back hurt, and he wasn't in the mood for conversations.

"Well, I was wonderin'," the man walked up closer to Ralon. He was taller, and stocky. He looked down his long nose at Ralon as if he was just some unimportant rodent.

"Yes?" Ralon didn't like the look of this youth. He remembered faintly that this was one of the men that had laughed during his whipping. He had eyes that always seemed to smirk and a horrible, foul mouth odour.

The youth narrowed his eyes even more. "You've ever bin thinkin' 'bout the importance of…" he seemed to cast around for a subject, and finally he landed on one. "Camels."

"Camels." Ralon repeated. "The importance of camels." He had no idea what this man was actually talking about. Was this some sort of code? Or was he so bored that he had nothing else to talk about?

"Camels, lad, camels. They've got thickish skulls." Ralon caught the barely noticeable glance that the youth cast over Ralon's head. He would've turned around to see what he was looking at, but he was already in enough pain from merely standing.

Ralon was starting to get annoyed. "Look, if you don't have anything useful to say –"

"Of course I've somethin' useful to say," The youth defended himself. He cast another glance over Ralon's shoulder. "I'll say that you've the thickish skull, like them camels."

Then, he patted Ralon on the back and walked away. The pat was gentle, but nonetheless it sent waves of pain through Ralon's body. His legs almost buckled and quickly, he set off to the main building where the kitchens were, in hope to get some food.

Later, Ralon returned to his cottage. He was tired out already, and he hadn't even been up for four hours. It was dark, in the cottage, so on the way in he lit the candle that was in its holder by the door.

And it shocked him, what he saw.

His tiny cottage had been ransacked. Clothes strewn everywhere, his armour and weaponry, all over the floor. He knelt down, and inspected the sheath of his favourite dagger (the dagger itself was halfway across the room). The sheath was broken, the seams of stitching torn, or rather cut, by another blade.

Ralon walked slowly around the cottage, inspecting his belongings. His bags had been opened, and everything was out there, on the floor. Some of his clothes had been wrecked, namely the better quality ones. The mattress was off the bed. It didn't really look like the people were looking for anything in particular, but it was possible.

Hang on – the mattress.

Ralon remembered that he had stashed a bag of money under the mattress when he first arrived. A large bag of money. He quickly looked around the place, kicking articles around and searching with his feet because he couldn't bend down. He knew that the money wouldn't be there, of course. Who would resist a bag of gold and silver nobles?

And who did this? It had to be someone in the village, probably one of the younger inhabitants since –

Ralon suddenly remembered the strange conversation he had had with that youth. How he didn't seem to be talking about anything in particular. How he had kept casting glances behind Ralon – at Ralon's cottage. His friends must have done it, Ralon realised. He stalled Ralon and his friends went in and raided the 'house'.

Slowly, painfully, Ralon pushed the mattress back onto his bed with his knees. Then he lay down, on his stomach, and started to plot revenge.

* * *

Ok, I'm sorry there was nothing about Ralon mining, but it was on his schedule, it was just that I didn't know he would make such a slow recovery. Sorry for the misleading statement. I hope you liked the chapter, and I hope you'll review. If the camel thing put you off a bit, because this is supposed to be serious, then please give me a suggestion to use instead of it. I didn't really like it either, but I was in a humourous mood.

Thanks to the reviewers: **Anastazia Silverwind** and **Rima **

Next Chapter: there will be a brawl so I will say no more. The King will have a say, and Ralon's going to make them pay.


	4. The thought of vengeance

**Edited 08/07/05**

Chapter four now, of this amazing story. Aren't you all excited? Can't you feel the suspense? Thanks so much to all those who reviewed, this is like the only one of my stories that has not been flamed! I consider this to be one of my best pieces, and please don't dampen my spirits! If you are looking for something original, please read _The Danger of Sharp Fans_. If you are looking for something completely random, please read _Neal's Biscuits_.

I don't own the characters. I own the depressing story I put them in.

**

* * *

Chapter four: The thought of vengeance**

Ralon grimaced as the hot sun beat down on his conveniently bared neck as he bent over in the mine. His back, still showing the ugly signs of his whipping, ached dully constantly. He had kept his shirt on out of pure vanity. No-one else had to see how his skin was bruised, scabbed and scarred.

He looked at some other miners on the opposite side of the trench to him, bare-backed, smiling and chatting animatedly as they completed their work. Ralon tried to stand up straight but his muscles creaked in protest. _And I thought that palace Page training was tough_, he thought to himself grimly.

It must have been nearly lunchtime, and Ralon was not going to tire himself anymore. Water-bottle already empty by his side, he pushed his shovel into the dirt and perched himself onto the edge of a boulder. As long as the supervisor was not present he could take a little break. None of the other miners would report it. It was sort of like the Pages at the palace. People minded their own businesses.

His thoughts wondered back to his stolen money. He knew who had done it now, the youth who had talked to him about camels' skulls, Bleid, was just stalling him so that his friends had time to sneak into Ralon's cabin. Ralon was sure it was them because the morning after the robbery, at breakfast, Bleid and his group of friends had walked past him, all sneering as they said their good-mornings.

They would have found out that he was a noble, then, by breaking into his cabin. The general attitude from commoners towards nobles was repulse, resent, and maybe even hatred. They knew Ralon was different. He talked differently to the others, acted differently also, as if he felt he was more superior.

* * *

King Roald, unlike the rest of Corus, did not spend much time pondering Ralon of Malven's disappearance, though he was quite surprised when he heard the news that CountViljo would be coming to Court for the Midwinter Festival. He, along with the rest of the palace – including stableboys, maids and cooks – had thought thatViljo wouldn't have the face to return because of the disgrace of his son.

Roald believed Ralon was hiding at Malven, honour lost. If he was, Roald wasn't' going to do anything about it. The boy hadn't committed any crime, he wasn't in exile, but he would never have passed the Chamber of the Ordeal. Ralon of Malven had become the top priority discussion topic in Corus. It would eventually spread to neighbouring kingdoms and Roald was curious to see how distorted gossip would have made the news when it got that far.

He was also curious to hear what CountViljo had to say about his son. From what the king knew of Count Viljo, he was a good leader and never spent much time with any of his sons, so, as a result, all four of them were spoilt and believed that they were better than all others, and this personality trait was especially prominent in Ralon, the youngest.

There was a knock at the door and Sir Myles of Olau came in, carrying a stack of papers. The shaggy knight dumped the paper on the desk in front of the King unceremoniously.

"Expenses, your Majesty," Myles announced, pulling out a chair for himself and sitting down.

The King looked at his advisor, suppressing a smile. "I wonder why I chose you as part of my Council, Sir Myles, because it certainly wasn't for your manners."

"I find formalities a waste of time, Roald, you know that." Myles rang a bell for some wine and gestured to the papers. "Are you going to read those or not?"

for most of the afternoon, the King and his advisor looked over the expenses for the Midwinter Festival, interrupted only by the servant who came in to deliver the wine. When the third bell after noon tolled, they had just finished working through the who stack of papers.

Another knock at the door was heard and another servant came in to announce that CountViljo of Malven had just arrived at the Palace.

When the servant left, Myles looked at the King with raised eyebrows. "I thought that the boy was much of a brat. What's your theory of his disappearance?"

* * *

Alanna andGary sat at the coffee table in George's chambers. It was rare that they both had spare time, and they tended to make most of it by visiting George.Gary sipped at the mug of tea he held in his hands, looking around the room thoughtfully. The fire was roaring in the grate and all the windows were tightly shut. Winter was well and truly here.

"Midwinter's coming up soon,"Gary commented.

Alanna nodded absently. Neither of them were in the mood for talking – both were just content to sit and stop thinking about duties, responsibilities of being noble and, in Alanna's case, her masquerade.

George sat down with them as well, examining the coloured glass of the tabletop. "Everyone's rushin' back to Court, eh?"

Alanna frowned. "Before this, I'd never have thought that there would be so many nobles in Tortall. They're all from all over the place, and I don't even know who most of them are. You can't imagine how embarrassing it is when you meet some high ranking Earl in the hallway and don't remember his name."

George leaned forward, with half a smile on his face. "So have you seen CountViljo yet?"

Alanna thought that the name sounded familiar, but she couldn't put where she had heard it before. Certainly not in Trebond, so it must have been at the palace. Suddenly it struck her. "You mean Ralon of Malven's father? He's HERE?"

"Why not?" asked Gary. "He's a noble, he's got a right to be here."

"I know, but…"

"And anyway," he continued, "I'm quite curious to hear his explanations of his son's disappearance. Most of the Court's talking about it."

"I'd just thought that maybe he would have been a little embarrassed to turn up at Court. Though I do wonder where that conceited cockroach is hiding."

"So HAVE you seen him yet?" asked George again.

"No, not yet," replied Gary. "I don't think he's due in until tomorrow." He looked out the window at the grey December sky. "And that reminds me – we'd better be going now, my father wants us for an extra war strategy session."

George stood up also, buckling on his sword-belt. "I'll escort you two as far as the Temple District."

"George, we can take care of ourselves," Alanna protested andGary nodded in agreement.

George grinned. "I know you're scared for my safety, and I'm glad, but I'm not lettin' two young lads go walking off by themselves. Midwinter's the messiest time of the year, and if you're killed no-one's gonna know until two weeks later."

Reluctantly, they let George escort them out. Alanna's thoughts were turned to Ralon of Malven, and thought that she'd find out soon enough where he is.

* * *

Bleid and his cronies sat at the other side of the hall, talking, laughing and having fun. Ralon watched them, hunched in his seat, shivering, cursing the huge hibernal temperature range.

He was starting to regret no having made any 'friends' in the village. With people at his command, he felt safe. It was easy to start a brawl with someone when he had people to back him up.

It was like with the midget of a boy, Alan of Trebond, at the Palace. Being a bully, he was lost without a gang, but he assured himself that he would make Bleid pay. And that he, Zen, would regain the power he should hold.

Because the thought of vengeance tasted so sweet…

* * *

Things will get tougher, messier and more blood-thirsty… keep an eye out.Thanks to the reviewers:** Lil Miss Barton, -yummi beans-, Poppyhead, Ice-Otter, Anastazia Silverwind.**

If anyone lives in Sydney and knows of a library that actually has _Alanna: the First Adventure_ could you please inform me. Thanks!


	5. Punishment and Revenge

This chapter begins with a flashback sort of thing, and as I said – things are going to be more bloodthirsty.

Thank you to all the readers of this story: I know there aren't really very many, but you are all the greatest. I know I may not have as much experience as any of you in writing drama stuff and it may not be any good, but thank you all for taking the time to read this. I might be as stuck up as Ralon and I know a lot of people disapprove of me for various reasons but I use this story as a sort of refuge. I can't say that I don't care about how many reviews I get – I do care, I care a lot – but I want to write this, because I really think it has potential. So the point I'm trying to make here is thank you all for taking time to read this, and I do hope you'll tell me what you think.

I don't own the characters. I own the depressing story I put them in.

**

* * *

Chapter five: Punishment and Revenge**

When he was younger, the year before he went to the palace, he once had a pet bird.

Ralon had found it, by the river that ran through fief Malven. He took it back home with him, and kept it, even though he knew his father wouldn't consent. It felt good to him, to be doing something that he knew he wasn't allowed. The sense of anarchy in him was strong. He wanted no authority over him, and trained the bird as if it was something of his and his alone.

He had kept the sparrowhawk in a closet, and all it ever saw besides the closet was him. He was the one that gave it food, and drink, and when he was angry the bird got neither. And like that, a few months went by. The closet began to stink. Ralon knew that it was bird of prey, that it needed to be let out eventually, but he didn't care. It was _his_ bird. He could do anything with it. It had to remain loyal to him, and to him only. He could tell it what to do, and it would do it. And so intent on keeping this bird like this that he never once realised that the bird might revolt. Why would it want to revolt against the only thing that it knew?

Then came the day that the bird escaped. He wasn't in a good mood that day, not having gotten what he wanted to eat for lunch, and he trooped up the stairs to his chambers, no food or water in hand, to jeer at the bird, as if to say, 'it's _your_ fault'. When he got there he found the closet door was ajar. He yanked open the door and found no bird inside. It had gone, against his wishes.

The bird couldn't have gotten out by itself – Ralon had closed the door too tightly, only a human could have opened it. Well, even if the bird _could _have gotten out he wouldn't admit it to himself, he was too proud. His first and only suspects were his brothers, who had come back to Malven from the training at the Palace for the summer. They _would_ be the sort of people who let his bird out just to spite him, as they had done similar things before.

As Ralon was the youngest he was often picked on, but this lasted until he could stand up for himself. When this happened, his brothers found out that _he_, the youngest, was the biggest brat. He was the most proud, the most self-centered. He would make all his brothers pay, for thinking him an easy target. And though they never admitted it, they were afraid of him.

He had stormed down the stairs and through the house that day, knocking aside people, animals and furniture alike. He ran out the back and while he was rushing he had realised that he didn't know where he was intending to go – but he had to keep going because whoever who took his bird would be watching him, and he couldn't afford to seem indecisive. And finally, his feet took him to the river where he had first found the bird. The bird was there, alone, standing on the bank of the river and drinking water.

There was no-one else in sight.

There were no clues to tell him who _had_ actually took his bird out of the closet. There was no-one on whom he could take revenge on, no-one he could make sorry for taking his bird.

Except the bird.

_Maybe it _could_ have gone out by itself, through the open window,_ he admitted to himself. But at any rate, the bird was at fault. Even if someone had taken it, it could have gone back to the closet. It could have fought whoever it was, trying to stay in the closet as this was what Ralon wanted. Ralon, its master, its overlord, who it was to obey. Yes, the bird was at fault. It had gone against his wishes, and it needed to be punished.

The bird hadn't seen him yet. Its senses had all been softened by living in the closet. Ralon removed one of his boot laces and crept up behind the bird. He suddenly pounced on the bird, pinning it to the ground, and while it struggled he tied a large stone to its feet.

The fact that the bird hadn't flown away before he got it convinced Ralon that he was doing the right thing, 'punishing' the bird. He was the one in power, and if the bird chose to defy him, it could take the consequences. And with being in power, he knew that when giving out a punishment it had to be harsher than the crime that was caused. Otherwise, the offender might attempt it again.

Holding the bird in both of his hands, he waded into the water until it was up to his waist. Then, he dropped the bird into the water. It sank with a plop, and he waded back out again without a second glance. The bird could never defy him again.

Ralon remembered his bird often now, especially when he was planning to revenge against Bleid. Well, he preferred to call it punishment. With people of equal status it was called revenge. When the prosecutor was of a higher class than the other it was called punishment. It was like this with the bird, five years ago, and it hadn't changed. Ralon was still the higher class. He would always be – he was of noble birth, he was smarter, he was educated – he was just _better_.

Ralon had started to hear rumours about him now. Rumours that he was a coward. Word of his stolen money had come out, and everyone wanted to know why he wasn't doing anything about it. Bleid and his friends were getting very confident.

He hated the comments about him, of course. They angered him. And no-one made any attempt to cover them up. It reminded him of gossiping servants in the Palace, back-stabbing 'friends', squabbling about money…

It all seemed so long ago when he was a noble, a page, a bully, but respected nonetheless. He hadn't thought about his disgrace much, he realised. It tormented still, and sometimes when he dreamt he dreamt about his father's hollow laugh, bouncing off the walls, which slowly closed in on him, suffocating him. And that laugh – it never left him alone. It was hard to imagine that all that had been merely two months ago.

He would've been a squire now. All his year-mates would be squires – Gary of Naxen, Raoul of Goldenlake, Alex of Tirragen, his friends. What if he had stayed? He knew that he'd never make it through the Ordeal – was it worth it to spend just four more years as a noble and then die, shaming his family? Was it better the way he did it, leaving? Was he right, choosing to go and live at Malven? It was ironic, though, because he didn't end up living at Malven. If he did, he wouldn't be going through this torturous life.

He wouldn't have to live through Bleid's tormenting comments, since he never bothered to quieten down when Ralon was near. Ralon overheard from Alya the cook talking to the supervisor that Bleid was planning to leave the village soon. _He would, wouldn't he,_ thought Ralon. _He's got all my money_. Ralon knew that he'd have to act, fast, or he'd lose his chance of revenge forever. The trouble was how was he to get his revenge?

Bleid announced his departure. He and his friends were leaving the mining village, and he stood up and made a speech on all of their behalf one night at dinner.

"Dear friends," he said, his voice carrying dramatically throughout the hall. "We are sorry to leave you all here at this village, but my friends and I have decided that it is time to move on in life. Go to a different place, and see where our luck takes us." He paused for effect there, and Ralon thought that he would've rehearsed this many times. His rugged accent had been forced out of the speech, and his voice was theatrical.

No-one was really listening, but he kept going anyway. "I know that some of you may not have liked me during our acquaintance" here, he flashed a smirk at Ralon "but now you can rejoice that I will be gone. For the rest of you, we give you the best of wishes – it has been a pleasure."

Bleid sat back down again, his friends cheering and clapping, the most of the rest of the hall gave him some polite, indifferent applause. Ralon watched Bleid lounging in his chair, smirking and looking like some content cat, and decided that he would have to go after Bleid.

He rode through the forest, but he couldn't see any signs of Bleid of his friends. Ralon was beginning to get a little worried. What if this wasn't the path they had taken?

He kept riding, but was still disorientated. But then he heard the unmistakable sound of a crunch of leaves on the ground. Ralon smiled to himself. They were around – they were just hiding.

Ralon dismounted, squinting around to see if he could see any traces of them, and suddenly found himself surrounded.

Bleid and his friends stood in a circle around him, all of them looking directly at him, expressionless, except for Bleid who was smiling. He had his hands tucked in his belt and Ralon's money purse was tied to it, next to his dagger. Ralon's teeth clenched.

"What do we have here, boys?" Bleid asked lazily. Ralon realised, with a jolt, that his smile reminded him of himself. "If it isn't our young friend Zen…"

* * *

A little cliffhanger ending, just to get you curious. My next chapter shall include a fight and blood. This story's going to turn out to be quite gory. How appropriate is it that I'm also reading a murder mystery?Thanks to my friend, reviewer and critic, **Lil Miss Barton. **


	6. A Noble's Pride

Hey everyone! I really can't believe it's chapter six already… and I've still got about seven years to kill before Ralon can go back to Cores. Alright, this chapter's quite different to the previous ones, and the ones I will write, because it's mainly a fight scene, hardly any speech. Bear with me, as it might not be great because it's the first fight scene I've written, and because I'm not very good with the visuals. Basically here, there's pain, yelling and a lot of blood – from both sides.

I don't own the characters. I own the depressing story I put them in.

**

* * *

Chapter Six: A Noble's pride**

Ralon looked all around him and glared. He was completely surrounded. It was too embarrassing – it was bad enough being caught by this group of commoners, but also being the 'hunter' in the first place made it unbearable for Ralon's pride.

Bleid had taken the purse out of his belt and tossed it up into the air, catching it deftly as it came down. Ralon felt another wave of anger as Bleid smiled.

"Lookin' for THIS, Zen?" he asked, smirking.

"Give it back, Bleid," said Ralon through gritted teeth.

Bleid ignored him completely. "I don't even think that's yer real name. How 'bout we all sit down and you can tell us the story of yer past. Who you really are? Were you a thief? But then, where would you 'ave gotten yer money? Did you steal it?" he thought for a while. "No, not likely, a thief wouldn't be 'alf as stupid as you."

Ralon gripped the reins of his horse so tightly that his knuckles turned white. It was obvious that Bleid knew of his real identity.

"Or," continued Bleid, walking up closer to Ralon, "Are you a noble?" His gaze never left Ralon's. "What was in that life for you, lad? Money? A nice bed? A woman? Why don' you tell us what it was like, ZEN, what was it like being a stinkin', cheatin', lyin' NOBLE?"

_Wham!_ Ralon had driven his fist hard into Bleid's face. His ears were ringing and he was angry, extremely angry. He could still hear Bleid's words in his head. The cold, sneering way he had said the word 'noble'…

"Ye'll pay for that, Zen!" Bleid yelled from the ground, both hands over his face. His nose was bloody and it looked broken. Ralon noted with satisfaction that Bleid was clearly in a lot of pain.

Bleid stood up, and slowly took his hands off his face. It was a bloody mess.

"Was that FUN, Zen?" he asked, voice even colder than before. "Did you enjoy it?" Suddenly, the youth gave a laugh. "It surprised me, though. Ain't your lot supposed to be 'honourable'? don't hit an unprepared opponent and all that? Is that why you stopped being a noble? You kept breaking the rules? And did you – "

But what Bleid wanted to say about him Ralon never heard, because at that moment he threw himself at Bleid, knocking him to the ground of the clearing once again. Ralon didn't care where he was punching, as long as they hit Bleid, and Belid's blows were equally wild. Ralon still felt the chill that Bleid had said so much about him so unwittingly.

Locked together, they rolled over and over until some of Bleid's friends pulled Ralon off him. Ralon struggled as they pulled him upright none too gently. He tried to wriggle out of their grasp but they were too strong.

Ralon glared at Bleid, who was getting up himself, with hatred. He expected Bleid to be sneering at him again but he was actually looking at Ralon thoughtfully. This frightened him. Was Bleid insane?

"Let me go," Ralon told his capturers who took no notice of him at all. "Let me go!" He ordered again, with more conviction this time.

They grasped him more tightly. "Shut yer mouth, you impertinent little –"

"Let him go." Everyone in the clearing turned to look at Bleid. A smile crept up into the youth's face as he commanded the release of Ralon. "I want to see if these nobles are what they're cracked up to be. How about that, Zen? A little 'dueling'?"

As if this was a signal, all of Bleid's friends stepped away from the two of them, forming a ring around Bleid and Ralon. Someone led Ralon's horse away and tied her to a tree.

Ralon watched as Bleid took off his knife from his belt and threw it aside. He was now unarmed. Ralon knew he expected him to do the same. He swallowed, and obliged, telling himself over and over that he will win this. But he couldn't deny himself that he was afraid.

Bleid circled, watching Ralon. His lips were curved upwards in a sort of grin, and he was still grinning when he lunged at Ralon. Ralon stepped aside but Bleid's blow still landed on his arm.

Cursing, Ralon stepped aside again just in time as Bleid's fist came down on him. Grabbing Bleid's arm, he twisted it around until it was behind Bleid and twisted harder, causing Bleid to yell in pain until his free hand scrabbled back over his shoulder and gouged Ralon's eye. Ralon let him go with a cry, and fell back as Bleid kicked him.

He rolled over, just in time as his opponent struck the ground where his head was a moment with his fist. Quickly, Ralon scrambled to his feet and aimed a kick at Bleid's groin. Bleid howled, staggering backwards, and Ralon too the chance to take a breath.

Hw wasn't counting on Bleid recovering so fast. He raised his hand, slamming it into Ralon's face then kicking his shin. Ralon, one hand over his bleeding nose, looked up to see Bleid looming on him and sneering.

"Oh save me, Lord Zen," he said in a mocking voice, "Please, have mercy on me! Spare me a noble's pride!"

Ralon growled as he launched himself at Bleid. Bleid was ready for him and they were locked together, body-to-body, both grimly trying to push the other over backwards.

Unexpectedly, Bleid suddenly let go and stepped away so that Ralon stumbled and fell on his face. Bleid wiped a hand over his brow and pounced on top of Ralon, pinning him to the ground just as he was about to get up.

And they were rolling again, punching, kicking, scrabbling with each other, both trying to gain the advantage. Vaguely, Ralon could hear Bleid's friends cheering him on in the background.

Bleid had his teeth gritted together, face scrunched up in concentration, drops of blood falling from his face onto Ralon's. Ralon managed to catch Bleid's shin with his boot and rolled over again while he was in pain.

But as they did so, Bleid had gotten his legs free and drove them hard into Ralon's abdomen. The younger boy, not having gotten a firm hold, went flying off him. He landed on the hard ground with a 'thump' , and tried to use his arms to push himself back up.

He couldn't do it. His back burned with the scars from his whipping so badly he could feel tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. He looked up then, to see Bleid standing over him, the hint of a smile just visible under all the blood on his face.

Ralon panted. "Bleid – " he began.

Bleid shook his head, still grinning. "No," he replied. Then he threw himself on top of Ralon, grabbing the boy around the throat.

Ralon realised with horror that this insane youth was going to kill him by strangling him – the worst way to die – and he could do nothing about it. He struggled, choked and spluttered, but to no avail. Bleid was stronger than him.

Then he remembered a something under his belt.

It was a small dagger, Raven Armoury, that his uncle had given him two years ago. He never went without it. Now it was the only sign of the wealth he had – and he needed it.

As Ralon removed on hand that was trying to stop Bleid from killing him from his throat, the older youth saw this as a sign on his getting weaker and squeezed harder, making him see stars. The boy grappled wildly around his belt, and wasn't entirely sure how he had gotten the knife out.

But he had, and, gasping for breath, he plunged the blade into Bleid's chest. At first it was like he didn't realise, but slowly, as if coming out of a trance, Bleid looked towards is chest and saw the bloody dagger hilt coming out of his chest.

"You –" the dying youth rasped, "broke – rules – " and Ralon could not forget that look of hatred Bleid gave him as he died, collapsing completely on top of Ralon.

Ralon freed the hands that were still grasping his neck and rolled Bleid's body over and away from him. Then he stood slowly, and looked upon the first human life he had taken. He smiled.

And not once did it occur the his non-existent conscience that he had broken the only rule for the duel to get this far.

* * *

And so the story continues. I actually shuddered, myself, when I thought up the idea of Ralon killing Bleid. Thanks for reading this and I hope you liked it… I think it's a little repetitive, and I really want your feedback (hint, hint), so if you could kindly press review…

I'm thinking of doing one more chapter in 'the present', then traveling forward in time, because if I try to write seven years at this pace it's going to kill me. I'd like to thank Cassandra Claire, author of _Draco Dormiens/Sinister/Veritas_ for inspiring me to write flashback things with meaning, and so you'll be seeing them more often soon. And for the time being, chapter seven hopefully won't take long.


	7. Leader by Combat

Hello again, everyone, I am here with a brand new chapter of _Claw_. I think that, after this chapter, I'm going to skip some years because I still have like seven years to kill before Ralon can go back to Corus. So, it's going to be a challenge, but with all your help and support (hint, review, hint), all your wonderful ideas (hint, review, hint), we shall breeze through it and be able to enjoy a masterpiece at the end. 

Okay, so I'm blabbing a bit, so why don't you just enjoy the chapter…

I don't own the characters. I own the depressing story I put them in.

* * *

**Chapter Seven: New leader**

"Well," said Ralon, looking around him at the faces in the clearing, all of them shocked. "We'll sort everything out in the morning." He started to walk towards his horse to collect his tent and bedroll, then stopped. He didn't have to do it himself…

"You," he ordered, snapping his fingers at a boy whose face reminded him vaguely of a squashed wolfhound's, "Get out my tent and bedroll and set them up over there. You - " the boy next to him "- help him, but first, get my knife for me."

The youth bent down and retrieved Ralon's knife wordlessly. Ralon nodded. "I need to get some rest."

Later, when he lay inside his tent, he realized he had made a bog mistake. He had read about rebellions in Tortall and the rest of the world in Sir Myles' class. Many had happened during the course of a new leader overtaking an old one - by combat. He knew that Bleid's friends didn't like him. What if they tried to kill him? They would try to avenge Bleid, for sure. Bleid was their leader, and they _didn't_ want a new one.

By killing Bleid, he had taken up Bleid's leadership position. By killing Bleid, he had put himself in a place that the followers might not want him to be in. Ralon shivered, holding the damp cloth harder over his swollen eye. Fear was not unknown in his childhood. His mother had whipped all four of her sons, so that none had shed a tear at her funeral six years ago, yet they had all managed to grow up so conceited, so arrogant.

And now, if the others should decide to kill him, he could do nothing about it. He was outnumbered, he was injured, and he was scared.

The next morning he woke up feeling no better than the day before. The pain from the fight had doubled during the night, and his eye felt a hundred times bigger than it had. Gently, he eased himself out of his bedroll. Gasping, he sat up and marvelled at the miracle that he was still alive.

Ralon had expected them to come kill him off during the night! His 'sleep' had been a series of interrupted dozes, waking up every so often as if to check that nobody was sneaking up on him. Breaking into a cold sweat every time he heard a noise, hardly daring to move in his bed, he should have been relieved in the morning, finding himself still alive, but somehow, he was more frightened than before.

Holding his head in his hands, Ralon readied himself to get up. He opened the tent flap and sunlight flooded in, blinding him momentarily. He swore loudly and took a swig of brandy from a nearby flask to clear his head. It was not going to be easy.

Slowly, after what seemed like a millennium, he crawled out of the tent and sat on the dirt outside. Then, using a stick as a cane, he 'pushed' himself upright, panting, his head still spinning.

All he could think of was the pain in his arms, legs and back. He tried to take a step and tears almost welled up in his eyes. So he stood, leaning on his stick for support until the boy with the squashed wolfhound's face came over to him.

"Uh… Zen?" the youth tried tentatively. He took in Ralon's swollen eye, his shallow breathing and his sandy blond hair, crusted with blood.

Ralon turned his head painfully to look at the boy. "What?" he asked, voice crackling. He didn't want anyone to see him in this state.

"I, er… I brought you some water." The boy handed Ralon a waterskin and Ralon frank greedily, keeping one hand on the stick. He poured the remaining half over his head, and felt not-so-dizzy.

They made their way back to the clearing, where the fight had taken place, and Ralon, not wanting to seem weak to the others, dismissed the boy and walked by himself. It wasn't early, so as Ralon walked, he noticed a few of the others sitting as he went past. The he came across Bleid's dead body.

Ralon's stomach lurched, and he just managed to keep the sick in. Bleid was dead, and Ralon had given that to him - a bloody, painful ending, and now his body was exposed to the sun, left to rot while his killer stood over him.

Ralon staggered into some nearby bushed and threw up violently, until he choked and spluttered with the sour tang of bile. Bleid would never torment him again. He took a swig from his brandy flask and felt the fiery liquid burning through him. He had killed someone - a real person, not like the bird he had drowned when he was nine. Someone had dies because of him, because he had wanted to kill him. Because now, he had power.

Ralon wondered why Bleid's body hadn't been disposed of, but that was alright, it wasn't as if he had to do it himself. Walking back to the body, he called for a few of the boys to take the body away and burn it, trying not to look faint at the sight of blood. For a leader could not be so squeamish.

It was then that he realised that these boys really had accepted him as a leader, whether they liked him or not. Ralon knew that he had things to learn about this way of life, for when he was a noble, what he didn't like, went.

But here, it was different. Ralon was still the boss, though he felt quite raw about it, but his subjects would do what he told them to, they wouldn't question his orders or murder him, as long as he was heir leader.

It didn't even matter whether he was a good leader or a bad one because he became leader by proving he was better than the old one. And he would keep on being leader until he, or all of his subjects, were dead. Ralon realised he could go a long way from here - this could really pay off…

"All right," he announced, as the group gathered around the big fire to watch the flames licking up into the sky, "The next thing we need to do is get out of here." The boys turned around to look at their new leader, at least a couple of inches shorter than any one of them. None of them put to their lips what they were thinking, that this boy was probably going to be the reason for their deaths.

* * *

So, any feedback, any ideas you would like to submit to me, please feel free to press the review button. Sorry this chapter was so short, but I just wanted to express one point here, and originally the part about seeing Bleid's body and vomiting was going to be in the last chapter, but I decided to end it there for effect.

Also, in this chapter there are maybe some morals for this bunch of boys that some people may not agree with. I'm trying to create the sort of atmosphere where these followers with always be the followers of whoever that's good enough to be a leader of theirs, i.e. able to kill the old leader through combat. There's this 'no question' sort of theme running in their community, just like back at the mining village where people where whipped for questioning orders. The boys have this sort of discipline, but Ralon is not used to it…

I know this might not be the way you see this sort of gang and society, but it is how I think it should work, so please, _please_ let me know what you think so I can compare my ideas with others - no-one I've talked to so far understands why they even have a sort of system like this at all sniff.

But _anyway_, thank you to all the people who are reading this and have come this far with the story. I value you all. Truly I do.

Thanks to the reviewers: **Lil Miss Barton, Lil Miss Barton **and **Alcapacien.**


	8. News from the capital

I think of Ralon as a 'faulty character' - someone who's a bully, a coward, and not even cunning (as opposed to Joren). I think he's a bit like Draco Malfoy, just gone wrong, stripped of his status and wealth (but I don't think that will happen to Draco). But that doesn't mean I have anything against him - he's a perfectly understandable character, and I believe every 'school' setting has to have someone like him, otherwise the balance is missing. 

I've edited what needed editing in the previous chapters, and I found myself steering a little away from Canon, but I'll try not to from now on.

I don't own the characters. I own the depressing story I put them in.

**

* * *

Chapter eight: News from the capital**

By dusk, they had managed to stumble out of the forest and into a large village. The group, the miners weary and sore and Ralon impatient as they could not keep up with his horse, surveyed the village before finding an inn.

"These people all look so fearful," Ralon heard one boy whisper. He had to agree. Everyone they saw started frightfully towards the party with wide eyes, some they passed were praying.

When they finally reached an inn, Ralon dismounted, looking at the dark, mournful-looking structure with distaste - it was simply not of his standard. They tried to enter the inn, but were stopped by two burly young men standing outside the door.

"Wait here," one of them said, as the other went inside.

After a few moments a weary looking elderly man emerged from inside the inn. There were dark lines around his eyes, which surveyed Ralon's group suspiciously.

"Looking for a lodging, are ye?" he asked, his voice tight.

Ralon glared at the man. "What does keeping us out like this mean? I demand lodging for my party, right now, or we'll go to another inn."

The innkeeper shook his head. "There ain't no other inns here," he peered at Ralon some more. "Where are you from?"

With some difficulty, Ralon managed to resist the urge to yell out that he, Ralon of Malven, son of a respected noble house, was hungry and tired and needed a hot bath. Instead, he quoted the name of the mining village.

"We came out of the forest," he added, somewhat coldly.

The innkeeper nodded. "Come in, then." And lead the way into the dark inn.

"Sorry 'bout the questionin' and waitin' and all that, but it's necessary," he explained, as he lead the group upstairs.

"We've received news from the capital an' there's a deadly fever brewin' in the city. We wanted to make sure nobody got it here." He opened the doors to three adjoining rooms and added, "folk call it the Sweatin' Sickness and half the Court's down with it, including the Queen and the Prince. T'would be terrible if the heir to the throne died."

"But..." the wolfhound faced boy, Gars, inquired, "wouldn't the disease spread to here? And the rest of the country?"

"That's what I'm worried 'bout, lad. They say the disease is caused by _sorcery_." Ralon noticed that the innkeeper's forehead had broken out in sweat while talking about the Sweating Sickness.

Ralon nodded his 'agreement' and smiled inwardly. If this disease was flooding through Corus, there was a good chance that Alan of Trebond would catch it. _He deserves it,_ thought Ralon bitterly,_ without him, I would still be at the palace._

_But a sorcerer-created fever is interesting,_ he mused as he took his bath. From what he knew, Alan of Trebond had magic, as did his twin brother. Could _he _have sent it? Ralon doubted he had the power, or the knowledge. And why would he let the fever infect the Queen and Jonathan?

Ralon shuddered. Whoever this sorcerer was, he had to be a powerful one. Maybe it was just as well he wasn't in Corus at the time. But if it had taken Alan of Trebond… Ralon grinned. It would be worth it to _be_ present at Court then.

He finished his bath and dressed in a set of clean clothes. He trundled upstairs and ate a dinner beef, vegetables and soup. Feeling satisfied, he decided to sleep for a little while, before joining the growing crowd in the Common Room.

The place was a little on the dim side, thought Ralon, who always preferred bright lights, but it was alright - much better than his old cabin at the mining village anyway. There were people sitting at the bar that stretched across one wall, and tables and chairs filled up the rest of the room.

Ralon joined some of his friends at one small table and ordered a light wine. Dimly, at the back of his mind, he told himself that if this kept on, his money was going to run out. As he sipped his drink, he wondered what path to take next. He couldn't talk about his ponderings to anyone else, of course, as they were all supposed to be under the impression that 'Zen' was a good leader who always knew what he was going to do.

Which, thought Ralon, wouldn't be hard if they were in a stable society, with money, housing, things to do… No one could say he was a bad leader, he assured himself, if he made a mistake now - in a situation like his, he had done almost extraordinarily well.

A big, well-muscled man who smelt like a wet dishrag came over to sit with them. He put out a hand for Ralon to shake, which he did so reluctantly.

"It's interesting, to see new faces around here," the man remarked, taking in Ralon's face. He had a not quite so common speech, and spoke as if he had had an education of some sort. Ralon was tempted to ask him if all he did was sit around at the inn and look for 'new faces'.

"We got here a few hours ago," said Ralon, somewhat forcedly. He wasn't exactly in the mood for talking - he needed time to think.

The man nodded. "I'm from Corus," he said, waving a waiter over, "I ran when the Sweating Sickness broke out." He shuddered. "I never want to see anything like _that _again."

As the man ordered some ale, Ralon thought hard. Maybe this man could tell him something about what was happening in Corus. Maybe he was associated with Court. Maybe Ralon could find out something about the Sickness, his father, whether Alan of Trebond was dead yet…

"So tell me," Ralon asked amicably when the barmaid had left, "about this Sweating Sickness. What is it?"

After some thought, the large man said, "It's some form of fever. The person affected has what seems like a fever and a cough - except when healers try to tackle it, they are drained of their Gift."

"So… you think it's caused by sorcery?"

The man shrugged. "Who knows? It certainly looks like it, and since none of the mages in Corus seem to be using powerful magic like that, it's assumed it's someone outside the city. Outside the country, even."

"And the Prince is down with it…"

"That's what I've heard."

Ralon narrowed his eyes and said slowly, "What if this… sorcerer wanted Prince Jonathan dead?"

"Why would someone do that?" the man shook his head. "The imagination of the young."

At that moment, the door to the inn banged open, and the young, long-haired man with a sweat-covered face and traveler's clothes standing outside was greeted by shouts of "Dominic!"

"Dominic, what news?" asked one man as Dominic bent double, panting, trying to catch his breath. Someone handed him a tankard of ale, and he drank greedily.

Ralon saw that everyone in the room's attention was solely focused on Dominic, impatiently waiting so that he could tell them the news.

Dominic finally managed to stand straight again, composed, but still breathing hard. "It's over," he announced, throwing the room into a hushed silence.

"Th' Sweatin' Sickness's over," he continued, looking at the wide-eyed crowd in front of him with some sort of satisfaction, "th' disease is all gone, as if it never happened in th' first place. Th' Prince is better - he was cured by some eleven-year-old page called Alan of Tre-somethin'."

* * *

Whew! Exhilarating! Please review and tell me what you think… please…

By the way, does anyone know exactly where the Lake Region of Tortall is? Like is it near where Persopolis is, or Trebond, or Tirragen, or whatever? I really would like to know, because if I'm going to write more about Malven I'll need to know where it is geographically.

Cheers to another chapter!


End file.
